Quotes from Marina Tsvetaeva about love. The tragic fate of Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva
The main thing to understand is that we all live for the last time.
Sometimes you love a person so much that you want to leave him. Sit in silence, take note of it...
The only one who is not familiar with sorrow is God. – M. Tsvetaeva
For children, the past and future merge into a present that seems unshakable.
There are other important things in life, not just love and passion.
Tsvetaeva: Sometimes you really want to give your soul for the opportunity to give your soul for something.
Constantly playing blind man's buff with life does not lead to anything good.
If we take the future us, then children become older than us, wiser. Because of this, there is misunderstanding.
Such a strange feeling. If we consider you as dear to me, only pain will remain. If you are considered a stranger - good. But for me you are neither one nor the other - I am with neither of you.
Women are often led into fog.
Read the continuation of beautiful quotes from Marina Tsvetaeva on the pages:
I am in life! – the first one didn’t leave. And in life - as long as God allows me - I will not be the first to leave. I just can't. I always wait for the other to leave, I do everything for the other to leave, because it’s easier for me to leave first - it’s easier to cross over my own corpse.
I can do without you. I am neither a girl nor a woman, I do without dolls and without men. I can do without everything. But perhaps for the first time I wanted not to be able to do this.
I say all sorts of stupid things. You laugh, I laugh, we laugh. Nothing romantic: the night belongs to us, not we to it. And as I become happy - happy because I am not in love, because I can say that there is no need to kiss, simply filled with unclouded gratitude - I kiss you.
Whether to dream together, or sleep together, but always cry alone.
Do you ever forget when you love – what you love? I never. How is that toothache- just the opposite, the opposite of toothache, only it aches there, but here there’s no word.
You need to write only those books from the absence of which you suffer. In short: your own desktop ones.
Friend! Indifference is a bad school! It hardens hearts.
I’m not needed by anyone, I’m pleasant to everyone.”
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.
Valor and virginity! This union. As ancient and wondrous as death and glory.
“No one wants - no one can understand one thing: that I am completely alone.
To love a person means to see him as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.
There are acquaintances and friends all over Moscow, but not a single one who is for me, without me! - will die.
There is a limited number of souls and an unlimited number of bodies in the world.
Ghetto of chosenness. Shaft. Moat.
Don't expect mercy.
In this most Christian of worlds
Poets are Jews.
If the soul was born winged -
What is her mansion - and what is her hut!
I know everything that was, everything that will be,
I know the whole deaf-mute secret,
What's on the dark, tongue-tied
In human language it is called Life.
And if the heart, breaking,
Without a doctor he removes stitches, -
Know that from the heart there is the head,
And there is an ax - from the head...
To the Emperor - the capital,
To the drummer - snow.
Some without curvatures -
Life is expensive.
Don't love the rich, the poor,
Don't love, scientist, stupid
Don't love the ruddy one - the pale one,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - half copper!
Don't be ashamed, country Russia!
Angels are always barefoot...
Let the young people not remember
About hunched old age.
Let the old ones not remember
About blissful youth.
Heart - love potions
The potion is the most accurate.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.
The whole sea needs the whole sky,
A whole heart needs the whole of God.
And God will punish the indifferent!
It's scary to step on a living soul.
The ship can't sail forever
And the nightingale should not sing.
I bless the daily work,
I bless you for your nightly sleep.
The Lord's mercy - and the Lord's judgment,
The good law and the stone law.
All on the same road
The drays will drag you -
Whether early or late.
Woe, woe, the salty sea!
You will feed
You'll give me something to drink
You will spin
You will serve!
Bitterness! Bitterness! Eternal taste
On your lips, oh passion! Bitterness! Bitterness!
Eternal temptation -
Finally fall.
Hussar! - Not finished with the dolls yet,
- Ah! - We are waiting for the hussar in the cradle!
Children are the world's gentle mysteries,
And in the riddles themselves lies the answer!
There is a certain hour - like dropped luggage:
When we tame our pride.
The hour of apprenticeship is in everyone’s life
Solemnly inevitable.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.
Behind the prince is a clan, behind the seraphim is a host,
Behind everyone there are thousands like him,
So that, staggering, - on a living wall
He fell and knew that - thousands would replace him!
A den for the beast,
The way for the wanderer,
For the dead - drogues.
To each his own.
Know one thing: that tomorrow you will be old.
Forget the rest, baby.
And her tears are water, and her blood is
Water, washed in blood, in tears!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love:
Expect neither judgment nor mercy.
And the moons will melt the same way
And melt the snow
When this young one rushes by,
A lovely age.
Every verse is a child of love,
Illegitimate beggar
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid down.
Some go to the sand, some go to school.
To each his own.
On people's heads
Leisya, oblivion!
Who hasn't built a house?
Unworthy of the earth.
Who shouldn't owe their friends -T
hardly generous to his friends.
Lighter than a fox
Hide under clothes
How to hide you
Jealousy and tenderness!
Love! Love! And in convulsions and in the coffin
I’ll be wary - I’ll be seduced - I’ll be embarrassed - I’ll rush.
People, believe me: we are alive with longing!
Only in melancholy are we victorious over boredom.
Will everything change? Will it be flour?
No, better with flour!
We sleep - and now, through the stone slabs
Heavenly guest with four petals.
O world, understand! Singer - in a dream - open
The law of the star and the formula of the flower.
Don't love a rich woman,
Don't love, scientist, stupid
Don't love, ruddy, pale,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - half copper!
One half of the window dissolved.
One half of the soul appeared.
Let's open the other half too
And that half of the window!
Olympians?! Their gaze is sleeping!
Celestials - we - sculpt!
Hands that are not needed
Dear, serve – the World.
Removes the best blush Love.
Poems grow like stars and like roses,
How beauty is unnecessary in the family.
Evening is already creeping in, the ground is already covered in dew,
Soon the starry blizzard will freeze in the sky,
And soon we will all fall asleep underground,
Who on earth did not let each other sleep.
I love women who are not timid in battle,
Those who knew how to hold a sword and a spear -
But I know that only in captivity of the cradle
Ordinary – feminine – my happiness!
Leaves fell over your grave,
And it smells like winter.
Listen, dead man, listen, dear:
You are still mine.
Laugh! - In the blessed lionfish of the road!
The moon is high.
Mine - so undoubtedly and so immutably,
Like this hand.
I’ll come up with a bundle early in the morning again
To the hospital doors.
You just went to hot countries,
To the great seas.
I kissed you! I cast a spell for you!
I laugh at the darkness beyond the grave!
I don't believe in death! I'm waiting for you from the station -
Home.
Let the leaves fall, washed away and erased
There are words on the mourning ribbons.
And if for the whole world you are dead,
I'm dead too.
I see, I feel, I smell you everywhere!
– What ribbons from your wreaths! –
I have not forgotten you and I will not forget you
Forever and ever!
I know the aimlessness of such promises,
I know futility.
– Letter to infinity. - Letter
into infinity-
A letter to the void.
My soul is monstrously jealous: it would not bear to see me as a beauty.
It’s unreasonable to talk about appearance in my cases: it’s so obvious, and it’s so not about her!
– How do you like her appearance? – Does she want to be liked externally? Yes, I simply do not give the right to this - to such an assessment!
I am me: and the hair is me, and male hand mine with square fingers is me, and my hooked nose is me. And, more precisely: neither the hair is me, nor the hand, nor the nose: I am I: the invisible.
Honor the shell blessed by the breath of God.
And go: love other bodies!
- Charlemagne - and maybe not Charlemagne - said: “You must speak to God in Latin, to the enemy - in German, to a woman - in French...” (Silence.) And so - sometimes it seems to me - that I speak Latin with women...
There are things that a man – in a woman – cannot understand. Not because it is below or above our understanding, that is not the point, but because some things can only be understood from within oneself, being.
There were no characters in my story. There was love. She acted – with her faces.
To love is to see a person as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.
Not to love is to see a person as his parents made him.
To fall out of love is to see instead: a table, a chair.
Do you know why poets exist? In order not to be ashamed to say the biggest things.
“Each of us, at the bottom of our souls, lives strange feeling contempt for those who love us too much.
(A certain “and that’s all”? – i.e. if you love me so much, me, you yourself are not God knows what!)
Maybe because each of us knows our true worth.”
And forever the same -
Let the hero in the novel love!
All women lead into the mists.
Ghetto of chosenness. Shaft. Moat.
Don't expect mercy.
In this most Christian of worlds
Poets are Jews.
If you were born winged -
What is her mansion - and what is her hut!
I know everything that was, everything that will be,
I know the whole deaf-mute secret,
What's on the dark, tongue-tied
In human language it is called Life.
And if the heart, breaking,
Without a doctor he removes stitches, -
Know that from the heart there is the head,
And there is an ax - from the head...
To the Emperor - the capital,
To the drummer - snow.
Some without curvatures -
Life is expensive.
Don't love the rich, the poor,
Don't love, scientist, stupid
Don't love the ruddy one - the pale one,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - half copper!
Don't be ashamed, country Russia!
Angels are always barefoot...
Let the young people not remember
About hunched old age.
Let the old ones not remember
About blissful youth.
Heart - love potions
The potion is the most accurate.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.
The whole sea needs the whole sky,
A whole heart needs the whole of God.
And God will punish the indifferent!
It's scary to step on a living soul.
The ship can't sail forever
And the nightingale should not sing.
I bless the daily work,
I bless you for your nightly sleep.
The Lord's mercy - and the Lord's judgment,
The good law and the stone law.
There is sadness in the world. God has no sadness!
...Always in blind man's buff
Playing with reality is harmful.
All on the same road
The drays will drag you -
Whether early or late.
Woe, woe, the salty sea!
You will feed
You'll give me something to drink
You will spin
You will serve!
Bitterness! Bitterness! Eternal taste
On your lips, oh passion! Bitterness! Bitterness!
Eternal temptation -
Finally fall.
Hussar! - Not finished with the dolls yet,
- Ah! - We are waiting for the hussar in the cradle!
Children are the world's gentle mysteries,
And in the riddles themselves lies the answer!
Valor and virginity! This union
As ancient and wondrous as death and glory.
Friend! Indifference is a bad school!
It hardens hearts.
There are more important things in the world
Passionate storms and exploits of love.
There is a certain hour - like dropped luggage:
When we tame our pride.
The hour of apprenticeship is in everyone’s life
Solemnly inevitable.
Woman from the cradle
Someone's mortal sin.
Behind the prince is a clan, behind the seraphim is a host,
Behind everyone there are thousands like him,
So that, staggering, - on a living wall
He fell and knew that - thousands would replace him!
A den for the beast,
The way for the wanderer,
For the dead - drogues.
To each his own.
Know one thing: that tomorrow you will be old.
Forget the rest, baby.
And her tears are water and blood -
Water, washed in blood, in tears!
Not a mother, but a stepmother - Love:
Expect neither judgment nor mercy.
And the moons will melt the same way
And melt the snow
When this young one rushes by,
A lovely age.
Every verse is a child of love,
Illegitimate beggar
Firstborn - at the rut
To bow to the winds - laid down.
Some go to the sand, some go to school.
To each his own.
On people's heads
Leisya, oblivion!
Who hasn't built a house -
Unworthy of the earth.
Who shouldn't owe their friends -T
hardly generous to his friends.
Lighter than a fox
Hide under clothes
How to hide you
Jealousy and tenderness!
Love! Love! And in convulsions and in the coffin
I’ll be wary - I’ll be seduced - I’ll be embarrassed - I’ll rush.
People, believe me: we are alive with longing!
Only in melancholy are we victorious over boredom.
Will everything change? Will it be flour?
No, better with flour!
We sleep - and now, through the stone slabs
Heavenly guest with four petals.
O world, understand! Singer - in a dream - open
The law of the star and the formula of the flower.
Don't love a rich woman,
Don't love, scientist, stupid
Don't love, ruddy, pale,
Do not love, good - harmful:
Golden - half copper!
One half of the window dissolved.
One half of the soul appeared.
Let's open the other half too
And that half of the window!
Olympians?! Their gaze is sleeping!
Celestials - we - sculpt!
Hands that are not needed
Dear, serve – the World.
...Washes off the best blush Love.
Poems grow like stars and like roses,
How beauty is unnecessary in the family.
Evening is already creeping in, the ground is already covered in dew,
Soon the starry blizzard will freeze in the sky,
And soon we will all fall asleep underground,
Who on earth did not let each other sleep.
I love women who are not timid in battle,
Those who knew how to hold a sword and a spear -
But I know that only in captivity of the cradle
Ordinary – feminine – my happiness!
In a dialogue with life, it is not its question that is important, but our answer.
You can joke with a person, but you can't joke with his name.
Women talk about love and are silent about lovers, men do the opposite.
Love in us is like a treasure, we know nothing about it, it’s all a matter of chance.
To love is to see a person as God intended him and his parents did not realize him.
For complete coherence of souls, coherence of breathing is necessary, for what is breathing if not the rhythm of the soul? So, for people to understand each other, they need to walk or lie next to each other.
There are meetings, there are feelings when everything is given at once and there is no need for continuation. Continue, because this is to check.
Every time I find out that a person loves me, I’m surprised; he doesn’t love me, I’m surprised, but most of all I’m surprised when a person is indifferent to me.
Love and motherhood are almost mutually exclusive. True motherhood is courageous.
Love: in winter from the cold, in summer from the heat, in spring from the first leaves, in autumn from the last: always - from everything.
Betrayal already indicates love. You can't betray someone you know.
The body in youth is an outfit, in old age it is a coffin from which you are torn!
Goddesses married gods, gave birth to heroes, and loved shepherds.
Our best words are intonation.
Creativity is a common work done by the solitary.
The future is the realm of legends about us, just as the past is the realm of fortune telling about us (although it seems the other way around). The present is just a tiny field of our activity.
A happy person should enjoy life and encourage him in this rare gift. Because from being happy comes happiness.
Wings are freedom only when they are open in flight; behind their back they are heaviness.
How delightful is the preaching of equality from the lips of a prince, so disgusting from the lips of a janitor.
Favorable conditions? There are none for the artist. Life itself is an unfavorable condition.
IN Orthodox Church(in a church) I feel a body going into the ground, in a Catholic church I feel a soul flying into the sky.
A woman who does not forget about Heinrich Heine the minute her lover enters loves only Heinrich Heine.
Kinship by blood is coarse and strong, kinship by election is subtle. Where it's thin, that's where it breaks.
The curve takes out, the straight drowns.
– Know yourself! - I got it. “And this doesn’t make it any easier for me to know someone else.” On the contrary, as soon as I begin to judge a person by myself, misunderstanding after misunderstanding results.
I love the rich. I swear and affirm that the rich are kind (because it costs them nothing) and beautiful (because they dress well).
If you cannot be a man, handsome, or noble, you must be rich.
Our children are older than us because they have longer to live. Older than us from the future. That's why sometimes they are alien to us.
The girls of that circle lived almost exclusively by feelings and the arts, and thus understood more about matters of the heart than our most lively, most sober, most enlightened contemporaries. (About Pushkin's time).
Sport is a waste of time and a waste of energy. Below the athlete is only his spectator.
Every book is a theft from your own life. The more you read, the less you know how and want to live on your own.
“Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva was born in Moscow on September 26, 1892, from Saturday to Sunday, at midnight, on St. John the Theologian, in the very heart of the city, in a small, cozy house on Trekhprudny Lane, reminiscent of the city estate of Famusov’s times.
She always attached semantic and almost prophetic significance to such biographical details, where a border, a break, a break is felt: “from Saturday to Sunday,” “midnight,” “on St. John the Evangelist...”.
At the time of her birth, at the end of autumn and on the eve of winter, the mountain ash bears fruit hotly - mentioned in various poems, it will become, as it were, a symbol of Tsvetaeva’s fate, bitter, broken, doomedly blazing with a high crimson fire:
"With a hot brush,
The rowan tree lit up.
Leaves were falling.
I was born.
Hundreds argued
Kolokolov.
The day was Saturday:
John the Theologian.
To this day I
I want to gnaw
Hot rowan,
Bitter brush."
Rowan can rightfully be included in Tsvetaeva’s poetic heraldry.
Tsvetaeva’s father came from a poor rural priesthood; thanks to his extraordinary talent and “strong” (as his daughter put it) hard work, he became an art professor and an outstanding expert on antiquity. It is no coincidence that Tsvetaeva has many mythological images and reminiscences - she may have been the last poet in Russia for whom ancient mythology turned out to be a necessary and familiar spiritual atmosphere.
Her mother, Maria Alexandrovna Main, who came from a Russified Polish-German family, was a gifted pianist who, however, realized her talent only in the home circle; Anton Rubinstein admired her playing. The musical element turned out to be exceptionally strong in Tsvetaevsky’s work. Marina Tsvetaeva perceived the world primarily by ear, trying to find the most identical verbal and semantic form for the sound she caught. Tsvetaeva turned out to be an Aeolian harp: the air of the era touched its strings as if against the visible will of the “performer”. Marina and her sister Anastasia Tsvetaeva were orphaned early - their mother died of tuberculosis when the eldest, Marina, was 14, and Anastasia was 12 years old. The father, immersed in science and the creation of the museum, loved the children, but did not notice that they were growing up. It is no coincidence that Marina grew up outside of reality: in the world of culture, books, music, dreams, she grew up, in her own words, “past” time.
At the age of 16, Marina began publishing. Before the revolution in Russia, three books of her poems were published: “Evening Album” (1910), “The Magic Lantern” (1912) and “From Two Books” (1913). In the 20s, two books with the same title “Versts” were published, where lyrics from 1914-1921 were collected. From the very beginning of her creative career, Tsvetaeva did not recognize the word “poetess” in relation to herself, calling herself “poet Marina Tsvetaeva.”
The external events of pre-revolutionary history had little impact on her poetry. Much later she will say that “the poet hears only his own, sees only his own, knows only his own.”
First world war and the revolution affected her insofar as it affected the fate of her husband and children.
She met her future husband S.Ya. Efron in Koktebel: Marina went to the deserted beach of Carnelian Bay. There she walked around looking for beautiful stones. And on a bench, against the backdrop of the endless sea, sat a handsome young man. He volunteered to help Marina, who admired him blue eyes, agreed. Tsvetaeva thought to herself: if he guessed which stone she liked best and brought it, then she would marry him. The poetess later recalled about this acquaintance: “And with the pebble, it came true, because S.Ya. Efron, whom I married six months later after waiting for him to turn 18, opened it almost on the first day of meeting him and handed it to me - the greatest rarity! - a Genoese carnelian bead, which is with me to this day.”
And one more thing: “In Crimea, where I am visiting Max Voloshin, I meet my future husband, Sergei Efron. We are 17 and 18 years old. I promise myself that no matter what happens, I will never part with him.” In Moscow in 1939, Tsvetaeva confirmed the promise she made at the age of eighteen. And that same “carnelian bead” outlived the participants in the events described for a long time: in 1973, it ended up in the hands of their daughter, Ariadna Efron.
Sergei Efron came from a family of Narodnaya Volya members. His mother, Elizaveta Petrovna Durnovo, was of a famous noble family, which, however, did not prevent her from joining the revolutionary organization “Land and Freedom” with a sincere desire to help all the disadvantaged. Yakov Konstantinovich (Kalmanovich) Efron came from a Jewish family, from the Vilna province. In her future husband, Marina saw the embodiment of nobility and at the same time defenselessness. Contemporaries noted that Marina’s feelings for Sergei were much maternal - and Efron needed guardianship and care. Friends and relatives described him differently. But most agreed that he was a handsome young man, with a gentle character, who needed the support of his wife.
Anastasia Ivanovna loved her “soft, friendly, charming relative” very much.
Efron, who fell ill with tuberculosis after the death of his mother in 1910, was in poor health throughout his life. Sergei Yakovlevich could not endure the humid Crimean climate for long, so the young people soon moved to the Ufa province, from where they returned to Moscow in the fall of 1911. Tsvetaeva’s father was then seriously ill and was treated at a resort for heart patients abroad. In anticipation of a serious conversation with her father about marriage, Tsvetaeva settled her future husband in her house on Trekhprudny Lane. After some time, they settled in an apartment in Sivtsev Vrazhek, where Lilya and Vera Efron, Sergei’s sisters, as well as Elena Ottobal - long ago Voloshina (Pra) from Koktebel - moved in with them. Efron was one year younger than his future wife. At that time he was writing the book “Childhood” and attending gymnasium. Marina was preparing her second collection of poems, “The Magic Lantern,” for publication. The quiet celebration of the wedding of Tsvetaeva and Efron took place on January 27, 1912 in the Palashevskaya Church. Not everyone greeted this marriage with enthusiasm. The right-wing monarchists Tsvetaevs and Ilovaiskys did not like the past revolutionary sentiments and Jewish origin Efronov. Marina herself was happy. Her feelings were reflected in the poem “To Joy,” dedicated to her husband. Soon after the wedding, the Ole Lukoie publishing house, which was founded by the young family, published Sergei Yakovlevich’s book “Childhood” and Tsvetaeva’s collection “The Magic Lantern”. Governess of the Tsvetaeva family, S.D. Main (Tjo), helped the young people buy a house on Polyanka, in Zamoskvorechye.
In September 1912, Ariadne was born in this house. In 1914, the young couple moved to another house, located in Borisoglebsky Lane, where Tsvetaeva lived until she left Russia in 1922.
Early years life together were happy. Marina Ivanovna wrote: “I constantly tremble over him. The slightest excitement raises his temperature, he is all feverishly thirsty for everything...
For three - or almost three - years of living together - not a single shadow of doubt about each other. Our marriage is so different from an ordinary marriage that I don’t feel married at all and I haven’t changed at all (I love everything the same and live the same way as when I was 17 years old). We will never part. Our meeting is a miracle.” It is worth noting, however, that by nature they were two different people. Sergei needed to serve some idea: first it was Marina, then loyalty to the homeland, then communism. Tsvetaeva served the word and art. Mark Slonim recalled that Marina really did not love anyone except her husband. Tsvetaeva remained with Efron all her life, following him to his death. However, there were other, sometimes quite unexpected, romances in her life. In 1915, Efron went to the front as a volunteer.” " Possible reason Some biographers call Marina’s affair with the poetess Sofia Parnok and the crisis in the relationship between the spouses such an unexpected act. Tsvetaeva and Parnok met in the fall of 1914 in one of the literary salons. Sofia Yakovlevna was seven years older than Marina Ivanovna. At the time of their meeting, she was already a recognized independent literary critic and talented poetess. Tsvetaeva instantly fell under her influence. From her youth until her death, Parnok had relationships with women, although from 1907 to 1909 she was married to the poet Vladimir Volkenshtein. Marina adored her beloved, admired her dark eyes, high forehead, pallor and arrogant lips. At the beginning of 1915, Tsvetaeva created the poem “You Go on Your Way...”, which describes everything that she liked so much about her new friend. Parnok combined, according to Tsvetaeva, “the tenderness of a woman and the audacity of a boy.” In the spring of 1915, Marina and Sofia go to Koktebel, where Alya and her nanny and sister Anastasia and their son join them. Tsvetaeva, meanwhile, was fully aware of the gravity of her situation and was torn between her feelings for Parnok and her husband. When the women returned to the capital, it became clear that their relationship had come to an end.
In February 1916, the romance ended. Something went wrong in the relationship with Sofia Parnok, and again there was loneliness, and again the pain of loss.
Details of the breakup remained unknown. The vicissitudes of their romance, with a certain amount of fiction, were reflected in Tsvetaevsky’s cycle “Girlfriend” and “Youthful Poems”. These relationships left a mark on the life and work of both poetesses; for Marina Ivanovna they turned out to be an important stage in poetic and spiritual development.”
“Tsvetaeva had two daughters - Ariadna and Irina. Son Georgy is in exile. During the hungry years of “war communism,” Tsvetaeva was faced with a tragic choice: she did not have the opportunity to feed both girls, and she was forced to give the younger Irina to an orphanage, where the girl died of starvation.
In addition to the tragedies of life in the first years of the revolution (the unknown fate of her husband, domestic instability, hunger, the death of Irina), Tsvetaeva also experienced a creative drama: both of her books “Versts” turned out to be incomprehensible to readers, even Osip Mandelstam, who loved and deeply appreciated Marina, in the article “Literary Moscow” responded more than harshly to her poems. All this increased Tsvetaeva’s feeling of her own uselessness in Russia. But main reason her emigration was a desire to reunite with her husband.
In May 1922, Tsvetaeva emigrated. In emigration, Marina was painfully lonely - without Russia, Russian land, outside the emigrant environment. She devotes poems to the Russian people, the events of contemporary Russian history, and speaks admiringly of Mayakovsky, Pasternak, Yesenin. She pays for her utmost sincerity and humanity, for her subjective honesty, by being no longer published in the emigrant press, limiting the opportunity to earn a living and depriving her of the contact with the reader that every creator needs. Tsvetaeva’s alienation from the emigrant environment was also connected with the position taken by her husband. Involved in a number of scandals, S.Ya. Efron was forced to flee France. Emigration recoiled from the wife of the “agent of Moscow.” Only a small circle of her friends remained faithful to the disgraced exile.
The question arose about returning to Russia. M.I. Tsvetaeva understood what difficulties awaited her in her homeland, but still decided to return. In this act, the main features of Tsvetaeva as a poet and person were again revealed: loyalty, courage, high concepts of honor.
She thinks first of all about her loved ones: she thinks that she will be able to help the family, that her son “will be fine” in Russia. Her life credo is expressed in a letter to her Czech friend A. Teskova: “You cannot abandon a person in trouble, I was born with this.” The crazy and cruel world of the Iron Age wrapped around her throat like a noose. The husband and daughter were arrested. Goslitizdat is delaying a book of poems. “Prosperous” poets make ironic remarks at her, refusing any help. Blok, Gumelev, Yesenin, Mayakovsky and Mandelstamp are no longer alive. As in the years of “war communism,” there is nothing to live on.
Since the beginning of the Great Patriotic War Tsvetaeva was completely at a loss, she was afraid that she would not be able to feed her son. At the beginning of August, she and a group of writers went to a small town on the Kama River, Elabuga. Tsvetaeva was ready to do anything just to get at least some work.
- On August 26, she wrote an application to the Literary Fund with a request to hire her as a dishwasher. But this too was denied to her.
- On August 31, 1941, the great Russian poet Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva voluntarily passed away. In one of the suicide notes there are the lines: “Forgive me, I couldn’t stand it.”
Composition
...My poems are like precious wines,
Your turn will come. M. Tsvetaeva
Marina Tsvetaeva is a poet of enormous talent and tragic fate. She always remained true to herself, to the voice of her conscience, to the voice of her muse, who never “changed her goodness and beauty.”
She begins to write poetry very early, and of course, the first lines are about love:
It was not people who separated us, but shadows.
My boy, my heart!..
There was not, there is no and there will be no replacement,
My boy, my heart!
About her first book, “Evening Album,” the recognized master of Russian poetry M. Voloshin wrote: “Evening Album” is a wonderful and spontaneous book...” Tsvetaeva’s lyrics are addressed to the soul, focused on the rapidly changing inner world man and, ultimately, on life itself in all its fullness:
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay -
And I’m silver and sparkling!
My business is treason, my name is
Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
In Tsvetaeva’s poems, like colored shadows in a magic lantern, the following appear: Don Juan in the Moscow blizzard, young generals of 1812, the “oblong and hard oval” of the Polish grandmother, the “mad chieftain” Stepan Razin, the passionate Carmen.
What probably attracts me most of all about Tsvetaeva’s poetry is its emancipation and sincerity. She seems to be holding out her heart to us in her palm, confessing:
With all my insomnia I love you,
With all my insomnia I listen to you...
Sometimes it seems that all of Tsvetaeva’s lyrics are a continuous declaration of love for people, for the world and for a specific person. Liveliness, attentiveness, the ability to get carried away and captivate, a warm heart, a burning temperament - these are characteristic features the lyrical heroine Tsvetaeva, and at the same time herself. These character traits helped her maintain a taste for life, despite the disappointments and difficulties of her creative path.
Marina Tsvetaeva put the work of a poet at the center of her life, despite the often impoverished existence, everyday troubles and tragic events that literally haunted her. But everyday life was overcome by existence, which grew out of persistent, ascetic labor.
The result is hundreds of poems, plays, more than ten poems, critical articles, memoir prose, in which Tsvetaeva said everything about herself. One can only bow to the genius of Tsvetaeva, who created a completely unique poetic world and sacredly believed in her muse.
Before the revolution, Marina Tsvetaeva published three books, managing to preserve her voice among the motley polyphony of literary schools and movements.” silver age" Her pen includes original works, precise in form and thought, many of which stand next to the peaks of Russian poetry.
I know the truth! All former truths are gone.
There is no need for people to fight with people on earth.
Look: it’s evening, look: it’s almost night.
What are poets, lovers, generals talking about?
The wind is already creeping. The ground is already covered in dew,
Soon the starry blizzard will catch the sky,
And soon we will all fall asleep underground,
Who on earth did not let each other sleep...
The poetry of Marina Tsvetaeva requires an effort of thought. Her poems and poems cannot be read and recited casually, mindlessly sliding along the lines and pages. She herself defined “co-creativity” between the writer and the reader: “What is reading, if not unraveling, interpreting, extracting the secret that remains behind the lines, beyond the words... Reading is, first of all, co-creativity... Tired of my thing , - means he read well and - read good. The reader’s fatigue is not a devastated fatigue, but a creative one.”
Tsvetaeva saw Blok only from a distance and did not exchange a single word with him. Tsvetaev’s cycle “Poems to Blok” is a monologue of love, tender and reverent. And although the poetess addresses him as “you,” the epithets that are assigned to the poet (“gentle ghost,” “knight without reproach,” “snow swan,” “righteous man,” “quiet light”) say that Blok is for her it's not real existing person, but a symbolic image of Poetry itself:
Your name is a bird in your hand,
Your name is like a piece of ice on the tongue,
One single movement of the lips.
Your name is five letters.
How much music there is in these amazing four lines and how much love! But the object of love is unattainable, love is unrealizable:
But my river is with your river,
But my hand is with your hand
They won't get along. My joy, how long
The dawn will not catch up with the dawn.
With her characteristic aphorism, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva formulated the definition of a poet as follows: “The equality of the gift of the soul and the verb - that’s a poet.” She herself happily combined these two qualities - the gift of the soul (“The soul was born winged”) and the gift of speech.
I am happy to live exemplary and simple:
Like the sun - like a pendulum - like a calendar.
To be a secular hermit of slender height,
Wise - like every creature of God.
Know: the Spirit is my companion, and the Spirit is my guide!
Enter without report, like a beam and like a glance.
To live as I write: exemplary and concise, -
As God commanded and friends do not command.
Tsvetaeva's tragedy begins after the 1917 revolution. She does not understand or accept her, she finds herself alone with two small daughters in the chaos of post-October Russia. It seems that everything has collapsed: the husband is unknown where, those around him have no time for poetry, and what is a poet without creativity? And Marina asks in despair:
What should I do, edgewise and providentially?
Singing! - like a wire! tan! Siberia!
According to your obsessions - like across a bridge!
With their weightlessness
In the world of weights.
Never, neither in the terrible post-revolutionary years, nor later in emigration; - Tsvetaeva did not betray herself, did not betray herself, the person and the poet. Abroad, she found it difficult to get close to the Russian emigration. Her unhealing pain, an open wound - Russia. Don't forget, don't throw it out of your heart. (“It’s as if my life was killed... my life is running out.”)
In 1939, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva returned to her homeland. And the last act of the tragedy began. The country, crushed by the leaden fog of Stalinism, seemed to prove - again and again - that it did not need a poet who loved her and aspired to his homeland. Eager, as it turned out, to die.
In godforsaken Yelabuga on August 31, 1941 - a noose. The tragedy is over. Life is over. What's left? Strength of spirit, rebellion, integrity. What remains is Poetry.
Opened the veins: unstoppable,
Life is irreparably whipped.
Set out bowls and plates!
Every plate will be small.
The bowl is flat.
Over the edge - and past -
Into the black earth, to feed the reeds.
Irreversible, unstoppable,
The verse gushes irreparably.
I can write endlessly about Tsvetaeva and her poems. She's amazing love lyrics. Well, who else could define love exactly like this:
Scimitar? Fire?
Be more modest - where is it so loud!
The pain is as familiar to the eyes as a palm,
Like lips -
Own child's name.
In Tsvetaeva’s poems, she is all of her, rebellious and strong, and in pain continuing to give herself to people, creating Poetry out of tragedy and suffering.
I am a Phoenix bird, only I sing in the fire!
Support my high life!
I'm burning high - and burning to the ground!
And may your night be bright!
Today Marina Tsvetaeva’s prophecy has come true: she is one of the most beloved and widely read modern poets.
More than half a century ago, a very young and unknown Marina Tsvetaeva expressed unshakable confidence:
Scattered in the dust around the shops
(Where no one took them and no one takes them!),
My poems are like precious wines,
Your turn will come.
Years have passed difficult life and the most intense creative work- and proud confidence gave way to complete disbelief: “There is no place for me in the present and the future.” This, of course, is an extreme and a delusion, explained by the loneliness and confusion of the poet, who knew the power of his talent, but was unable to choose the right path.
The fate of what an artist creates does not boil down to his personal fate: the artist leaves - the art remains. In the third case, Tsvetaeva said much more precisely: “... there is nothing new in me except my poetic responsiveness to the new sound of the air.” Marina Tsvetaeva is a great poet; she turned out to be inseparable from the art of the present century.
Tsvetaeva began writing poetry from the age of six, publishing from the age of sixteen, and two years later, in 1910, while still in school uniform, she secretly released a rather voluminous collection, “Evening Album,” secretly from her family. He did not get lost in the flow of poetic novelties; he was noticed and approved by V. Bryusov, N. Gumilyov, and M. Voloshin.
Tsvetaeva’s lyrics are always addressed to the soul, this is a continuous declaration of love for people, for the world in general and for a specific person. And this is not humble, but daring, passionate and demanding love:
But today I was smart;
Rozno went out onto the road at midnight,
Someone walked in step with me,
Calling names.
And it turned white in the fog - a strange staff...
Don Juan didn't have Donna Anna!
This is from the Don Juan series.
Tsvetaeva often wrote about death, especially in her youthful poems. This was a kind of sign of good literary tone, and young Tsvetaeva was no exception in this sense:
Listen! - You still love me
Because I'm going to die.
By nature, Marina Tsvetaeva is a rebel. Rebellion and
Her poetry:
Who is made of stone, who is made of clay -
And I’m silver and sparkling!
I care about betrayal, My name is Marina,
I am the mortal foam of the sea.
In another poem she adds:
Admired and delighted,
Dreaming in broad daylight,
Everyone saw me sleeping
Nobody saw me sleepy.
The most valuable, most undeniable thing in Tsvetaeva’s mature work is her unquenchable hatred of “velvet satiety” and all kinds of vulgarity. Having arrived from poor, hungry Russia to a well-fed and elegant Europe, Tsvetaeva did not succumb to its temptations for a minute. She did not betray herself - the person and the poet:
Bird - Phoenix I sing only in the fire!
Support my high life!
I'm burning high - and burning to the ground!
And may your night be bright!
Her heart yearns for her abandoned homeland, the Russia that she knew and remembered:
I bow to Russian rye,
Niva, where the woman sleeps...
Friend! It's raining outside my window
Troubles and joys in the heart...
And the son must return there so as not to be all his life
Renegade:
Neither to the city nor to the village -
Go, my son, to your country...
Go home, my son - forward -
In your own region, in your own age, in your own time...
By the 1930s, Marina Tsvetaeva was already quite clearly aware of the line that separated her from the white emigration. She writes in a rough notebook: “My failure in emigration is that I am not an emigrant, that I am in spirit, that is, in air and in scope - there, there, from there...”
In 1939, Tsvetaeva restored her Soviet citizenship and returned to her homeland. The seventeen years spent in a foreign land were difficult for her. She had every reason to say: “The ashes of emigration... I am all under it - like Herculaneum - and so life has passed.”
Tsvetaeva long dreamed that she would return to Russia as a “welcome and welcome guest.” But it didn't work out that way. Her personal circumstances were bad: her husband and daughter were subjected to unjustified repression. Tsvetaeva settled in Moscow, began translating, and prepared a collection of selected poems. War broke out. The vicissitudes of the evacuation brought Tsvetaeva first to Chistopol, then to Vlabuga. It was then that that “supreme hour of loneliness” overtook her, about which she spoke with such deep feeling in her poems. Exhausted and lost, on August 31, 1941, Marina Ivanovna Tsvetaeva committed suicide. But Poetry remained.
Opened the veins: unstoppable,
Life is irreparably whipped.
Set out bowls and plates!
Every plate will be small,
The bowl is flat. Over the edge - and past -
Into the black earth, to feed the reeds.
Irreversible, unstoppable,
The verse gushes irreparably.